Moore 


Fugitives 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FUGITIVES 


ISABEL    MOOKE 


-      .<~ 


A-i-V/ 


' 


FUGITIVES 

By 

ISABEL    MOORE 


NEW  YORK: 

PRINTED  BY  RODERIC  C.  PENFIELD,  1600  BROADWAY 
1916 


r 


CONTENTS 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  YOUTH 9 

AN  APRIL  FANCY ,.    .    .    .  1 1 

THE  TURQUOISE  GOD       13 

ISLAND  POSSESSIONS 18 

THE  ICE  DRAGON  AND  THE  SUN  GOD    .    .  29 

DESTINY 33 

AT  THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 35 


788078 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  YOUTH. 

(Published  in  The  New  York  Observer,  April,  1909.) 

Away  off  in  the  heart  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 
a  tiny  baby  River  lived. 

Its  cradle  was  a  lake  fringed  round  with  crys 
tals,  and  during  all  its  infancy  the  Snow-Caps 
guided  its  uncertain  footsteps.  They  were  not 
very  friendly,  those  old  Snow-Caps,  with  their 
great  seamed  faces  and  their  brows  that  often 
frowned  at  the  laughter  of  the  River.  But  a 
baby  knows  too  much  to  be  afraid!  It  laughed 
at  the  sun  and  played  with  the  sunbeams;  it 
laughed  at  the  wind  to  which  the  fir  trees  bowed 
in  homage;  and  at  night  it  sometimes  awoke  and 
laughed  at  the  stars  in  its  lap. 

As  it  grew  older  it  grew  just  a  little  more 
serious,  and  there  would  creep  into  its  heart  the 
most  wonderful  pictures. 

By  and  by  something  else  happened.  It  be 
gan  to  be  noticed  by  its  companions,  and  this 
gave  a  pleasing  sense  of  importance.  Timid 
flowers  nodded,  the  wind  lingered,  and  the  fir 
trees  occasionally  leaned  their  beautiful  lengths 
across  in  greetings. 

Then,  one  day,  a  hunter  tried  to  make  friends. 
He  was  a  rough  old  chap,  with  cheeks  as  fur 
rowed  as  those  of  the  mountains,  and  eyes  like 
bits  of  wintry  sky.  The  River  passed  along 
very  quietly  till  the  darkness  came,  when  it  grew 
brave  again,  and  played  hide-and-seek  with  the 
Wind,  rushing  about  heedlessly  and  laughing  up 
roariously  at  each  new  tumble.  Said  the  Hunter: 

"Little  River,  let  me  sleep." 

But  the  River  only  laughed  with  a  sheer 
mocking  cadence. 

"Sweet  Spirit  of  the  River,"  said  the  Hunter, 
"do  not  be  in  such  a  hurry;  you  will  not  like 
the  plains  and  cities." 


This   gave   the    River    a    first   great   serious 
thought,  and  it  grew  very  silent  for  a  time. 
Then  the  Hunter  slept. 


Miles  and  miles  away  from  the  heart  of  the 

Rocky    Mountains    a    broad,    sweet-tempered 

River  flows.     It  is  very  quiet  and  a  little  sad, 

but  not  unhappy,  and  in  a  low  voice  it  murmurs : 

"Content  and  service.     Content  and  service/' 

O,  pure,  whole-hearted  River!     O,  helpful, 

patient  River!     Your  strength  comes  from  the 

mountains  of  your  youth.     What  wonder  if  an 

old-time  friend,  the  Wind,  wings  words  of  love 

back  to  the  grim  old  Snow-Caps? 


10 


AN  APRIL  FANCY. 

(Published  in  Life,  April,  1902) 

A  little  Maiden  Wind  tiptoed  her  way  across 
a  meadow.  So  dainty  were  her  footsteps  that 
the  new  grass  hardly  bent  beneath  them,  and  so 
gentle  her  caresses  that  not  a  single  flower-bud 
turned  aside. 

"What  a  sweet,  sweet  meadow,"  sighed  the 
little  Maiden  Wind,  catching  her  draperies  in 
one  hand  and  reaching  out  the  other  in  gentlest 
greetings. 

During  all  the  day  she  loitered  through  the 
meadow,  and  toward  nightfall  she  came  near  the 
entrance  of  a  city.  She  had  never  seen  a  city, 
so,  when  a  spirit  of  adventure  (to  which  little 
Maiden  Winds  are  liable)  took  possession  of 
her,  she  wandered  in. 

To  her  great  surprise  she  found  the  earth  and 
air  of  the  city  cut  into  many  passages  and  subtle 
turnings  rilled  with  human  beings  hurrying  back 
and  forth.  She  followed  one  man  for  a  time, 
trying  to  discover  why  he  hurried;  but  as  she 
could  not  in  the  least  understand  his  movements, 
she  presently  left  him  and  amused  herself  by 
chasing  stray  things  around  corners  and  poking 
inquisitive  fingers  into  all  sorts  of  places  never 
meant  for  the  fingers  of  a  little  Maiden  Wind. 

But  she  soon  wearied.  The  great  noise  that 
had  been  imprisoned  in  the  passages  troubled 
her.  She  was  constantly  thinking  how  much 
more  comfortable  it  would  be  out  in  the  mead 
ow  where  there  was  room  enough.  Then  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  possibly  the  noise 
was  lost;  that  even  the  rushing  people  might 
also  be  lost.  Perhaps  they  were  all  seeking  the 
meadow  and  could  not  find  it! 

Whereupon  a  great  fear  seized  her  that  maybe 
she  herself  might  never  again  see  the  beautiful, 


ii 


beautiful  meadow!  And  she  felt  a  passionate 
terror  of  the  great  city,  and  began  running  wild 
ly  about,  knocking  into  people  and  hindered  by 
everything. 

"O  dear,  O  dear,"  screamed  the  little  Maiden 
Wind,  dashing  herself  against  a  wall,  "I  can't 
get  out,  I  can't  get  out,  I  say,"  and  she  flung  her 
arms  up  over  her  head. 

Behind  a  basement  window  stood  a  City 
Child,  pale  and  wistful.  Outside,  in  an  old  box, 
some  young  plants  lived;  and  they,  too,  were 
pale  and  wistful.  At  sight  of  them  the  little 
Maiden  Wind  burst  into  tears. 

"You  dear,  dear  things,"  she  sobbed,  taking 
them  for  a  moment  into  her  arms.  "Have  you 
never  see  the  meadow?  I  must  find  the  mead 
ow,  for  without  it  I  shall  die." 

And  so,  with  sweet  complaining,  she  passed 
on. 

"Mother,"  said  the  City  Child,  who  had 
watched  a  few  big  drops  of  rain  come  splashing 
out  of  a  clear  sky  upon  his  flowers,  "Mother, 
the  wind  is  crying!" 


12 


THE  TURQUOISE  GOD. 

(Published  in  Poet  Lore,  Autumn,  1906.) 

The  Turquoise  God  was  born  white;  but- 
urged  by  the  Sun  whom  all  gods  and  men  obey 
— he  yielded  to  the  power  of  secret  flame  and 
put  on   a   beautiful   azure,   the   colour  of   the 
"heart  of  heaven." 

Consequently  Turquoise,  even  unto  this  day, 
is  so  in  sympathy  with  the  skies  that  it  is  always 
changing  in  shade :  light  blue  when  the  heavens 
are  clear,  dull  and  sometimes  green  when  the 
heavens  are  in  a  sullen  mood.  And,  as  sym 
pathy  with  heaven  is  but  the  medium  for  the 
sympathie  humane,  so  in  turn  does  Turquoise 
guard  its  owner  from  evil  by  drawing  upon  itself 
any  malignant  influence:  growing  pale  when 
there  is  danger,  and  in  all  things  being  so  helpful 
that  there  has  arisen  a  proverb  among  mankind 
which  says:  "A  turquoise  given  by  a  loving 
hand  carries  with  it  happiness  and  good 
fortune." 

But  all  this  has  come  about  in  the  long  ages 
that  have  elapsed  since  in  the  Valley  of  White 
Turquoise  in  the  land  of  the  Incas  the  Turquoise 
God  that  was  born  white  obeyed  the  Sun  and 
became  blue. 

Now  the  temple  of  the  Sun  stood  in  the  City 
of  the  Kings,  Coricaucha,  which  means  the 
Place  of  Gold; — and  certainly  there  was  much 
gold  in  that  place  where,  according  to  an  old 
Chronicler,  "every  fountain,  pathway  and  wall 
was  regarded  as  a  holy  mystery." 

Among  far-reaching  fields  of  maize  stood  the 
Temple,  builded  of  stone,  simple  and  solid,  as 
befitted  the  earthly  dwelling  of  the  deity  who 
presided  over  the  destinies  of  man;  who  gave 
light  and  warmth  to  the  nations;  whose  breath 
was  life  to  the  vegetable  world;  who  was  the 

13 


father  of  the  royal  dynasty;  and  the  founder  of 
the  Empire  of  the  Incas.  And  far  beyond  the 
plateau  on  which  it  stood,  toward  the  distant, 
magic  west  of  the  world,  stretched  the  crests  of 
the  frozen  Andes. 

Upon  the  chief  altar  of  the  Temple  burned 
the  sacred  flame,  cared  for  by  the  Virgins  of  the 
Sun.  This  was  the  holy  of  holies.  At  the  west 
end  of  the  Temple  was  emblazoned  a  represen 
tation  of  the  face  of  the  Sun  God,  glancing  in 
all  directions  through  innumerable  shafts  of 
golden  rays;  and  so  placed  that  the  Sun  himself, 
when  rising  and  shining  in  at  the  eastern  en 
trance,  looked  directly  upon  his  prototype  and 
lighted  the  whole  edifice  with  fresh  young  glory. 
And,  opening  from  the  great  chamber  with  its 
frieze  of  heavy  gold,  were  various  chapels  sac 
red  to  the  other  deities:  silver-faced  Moon 
Goddess,  mother  of  the  Incas;  the  sparkling 
stars;  the  iridescent  Rainbow;  and  the  mighty 
gods  of  Thunder  and  Lightning. 

These  were  the  greater  gods.  Near  them, 
like  satellites,  were  the  lesser  gods,  of  wrhom  the 
Turquoise  God  was  one.  But,  although  he  was 
a  lesser  god,  he  was  a  very  ancient  god,  associ 
ated  with  Crystal,  the  creator  of  the  world, 
whom  the  Incas  had  found  among  their  prede 
cessors  in  the  land  and  who  was  yet  older  than 
their  Sun  God. 

It  was  during  the  Feast  of  Raymi,  of  the  sum 
mer  solstice,  when  the  Sun  God  returned  to  his 
people  from  the  South,  that  the  White  Men 
carn^.  There  had  long  been  predictions  of  this 
coming  of  a  gleaming  people,  new  children  of 
the  Sun.  The  oracles  had  said  that  the  race  of 
the  Incas  should  become  extinct  with  the  twelfth 
Inca,  who  was  now  upon  the  throne.  There 
was  strife  between  the  royal  brothers.  Comets 
had  been  seen  in  the  heavens.  Earthquakes  had 


shaken  the  land.  The  moon  had  been  en-ringed 
with  fire  of  many  colors.  A  thunderbolt  had 
fallen  upon  one  of  the  royal  palaces  and  burned 
it  to  ashes.  An  eagle,  chased  by  hawks,  scream 
ing  in  the  air,  had  been  seen  to  hover  above  the 
great  square  of  Cuzco;  and  was  pierced  by  the 
talons  of  his  tormentors.  The  king  of  birds  had 
fallen  lifeless  in  the  presence  of  many  of  the 
Inca  nobles,  and  the  wise  men  read  in  the  event 
an  augury  of  their  own  destruction. 

Pilgrims  were  assembled,  prostrate  and 
breathless,  for  the  first  rays  of  the  Sun  God  to 
strike  his  golden  likeness  in  the  Temple  at  the 
time  of  the  Feast  of  Raymi.  Conch  and  trum 
pet  and  atabal  brought  forth  barbaric  melodies. 
The  royal  mummies,  with  their  robes  profusely 
ornamented,  were  seated  in  gold-embossed 
chairs,  to  welcome  the  Sun  God. 

Then  came  the  White  Men,  Pizzaro  and  his 
followers,  in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Vicar  of  God 
and  the  Sovereign  of  Spain. 

Like  thunder  clouds,  dense  masses  of  warriors 
closed  down  upon  the  slopes  of  the  mountains. 
There  advanced  a  forest  of  crests  and  waving 
banners;  of  lances  and  battle-axes  edged  with 
gleaming  copper.  The  ground  shook  with  the 
tread  of  heavy  cavalry.  A  trumpet  sounded  a 
prolonged  note,  and  the  Spaniards  descended 
upon  the  beautiful  and  sacred  city  as  it  lay  lap 
ped  in  its  verdant  valley.  They  went  directly 
to  the  square  in  front  of  the  Temple.  They 
proclaimed  that  the  dynasty  had  fallen;  the 
sceptre  forever  passed  from  among  the  Incas. 

Before  this  race  of  dazzling  strangers,  drop 
ped  from  the  clouds,  the  people  fled.  And  it 
was  not  many  days  before  flame  enveloped  the 
city  of  Coricaucha.  Towers  and  huts  and  halls 
and  palaces  went  down  before  it.  Graves  were 
rifled  of  their  buried  jewels;  human  beings  were 

15 


tortured  to  extort  hidden  treasure;  the  royal 
mummies  were  stripped  of  their  ornaments. 
The  ancient  seat  of  empire  was  laid  in  ashes — 
all  but  the  Temple  which  stood  ever  forth 
against  the  flame — while  the  shadowy  Andes 
looked  down  upon  it  all. 

So  did  the  Spaniards  to  their  brethren  who  be 
came  "a  flock  without  a  fold."  And  on  the  Tem 
ple  of  the  Sun  they  raised  the  Cross  of  Christ. 

The  old  gods  fled.  Only  the  Sun  God,  who 
in  his  manifold  greatness  could  not  desert  his 
people,  visited  again  that  land. 


Along  the  narrow  streets  and  by  the  banks  of 
the  crystal  river  that  flowed  through  the  city, 
hastened  the  Turquoise  God.  On  through  the 
straggling  borders  of  houses  along  the  outer 
edge  of  the  city,  on  and  again  on  among  the  rocks 
and  waterfalls  and  woods,  as  though  the  Span 
iards  were  close  behind.  Indeed  they  did  hunt 
for  him,  for  their  appetite  for  gold  had  been 
somewhat  appeased. 

But  he  eluded  pursuit  by  a  hundred  leagues, 
north  by  the  great  highway  of  Cuzco.  Along 
the  Cordillera  of  the  Andes  over  South  America 
and  the  Isthmus,  he  entered  into  the  land  of  the 
mighty  Aztecs  and  the  kingdom  of  Anahuac, 
where  the  war  god,  Mexitle,  had  builded  his 
city  at  the  direction  of  the  eagle.  And  there  he 
found  a  state  of  affairs  curiously  like  that  in  the 
land  of  the  Incas.  Destruction  and  pillage  by 
the  omnipresent  White  Men  were  raging;  the 
temples  were  in  ruins;  the  older  gods  had  fled. 

In  that  land  the  Turquoise  God  received  the 
name  of  Chalchihuitl  while  he  dwelt  for  a  little 
space  upon  Turquoise  Mountain;  and,  later  on, 
hid  in  a  cave  where  years  and  years  afterwards 
were  the  famous  turquoise  mines  of  the  Cerillos. 

16 


But  nowhere  could  he  find  a  safe  retreat.  So 
on  he  fled,  northward,  ever  keeping  near  the 
ridge  of  the  Great  Divide,  and  passing  the  whole 
length  of  the  tierra  caliente:  and  yet  again  be 
yond  the  vast  tablelands  where  the  hills  stretch 
away  and  ever  onward  to  the  north.  And  on  all 
the  country  round  about  over  which  he  wan 
dered,  the  Turquoise  God  left  azure  footprints. 

In  the  land  of  his  final  exile,  among  the  mesas 
of  the  Zunis,  he  at  last  found  refuge  and  a 
companion. 

The  Goddess  of  Salt  had  for  a  very  long  time 
been  greatly  troubled  by  the  people  near  her 
domain  on  the  seashore  who  took  away  her 
snowy  treasures  without  paying  tribute,  and  so 
she  forsook  the  ocean  and  went  inland. 

But  the  people  of  New  Mexico  followed  after 
her;  and  she,  wearied  to  death  of  them,  declared 
she  would  pass  from  their  view  forever,  and 
penetrated  further  and  further  inland.  When 
ever  she  stopped  beside  a  pool  to  rest  she  turned 
it  salty;  and  she  wandered  so  long  about  the 
great  basins  of  the  west  that  much  of  the  water 
in  them  is  very  bitter. 

Then  it  was  that  she  and  the  Turquoise  God 
met  and  travelled  on  together  hand-in-hand. 
Each  had  the  same  need  of  companionship. 
Each  had  lost  all  of  this  world  except  them 
selves.  Therefore  they  came  to  live  for  each 
other  and  to  love  each  other  very  happily. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  wonderful  mesa, 
guarded  by  a  high  wall  of  sandstone.  This  wall 
they  broke  through,  making  a  great  arched  por 
tal  to  their  dwelling. 

But  the  Goddess  of  Salt  hit  her  head  against 
the  portal  when  passing  under  it  and  broke  off 
one  of  her  beautiful  plumes  so  that  it  fell 
outside. 

And  there  it  lies  unto  this  day. 

17 


ISLAND  POSSESSIONS. 
I 

An  island  is  a  jewel  of  earth:  a  jewel  be 
cause  earth-born  and  not  in  despite  of  so  being. 

It  was  on  a  transcendent  day,  crisp,  sunshiny, 
wind-driven,  that  I  lifted  my  enraptured  gaze 
from  the  crested  blue  waters  parting  with  a 
clean  stroke  at  the  steamer's  prow,  and  beheld 
the  vision.  Mackinaw,  the  Michilimackinac 
of  the  Indians,  rose  out  of  the  bosom  of  its  straits 
sheer  at  the  eastern  end,  low-lying  at  the  west 
ern,  a  realization  of  all  dreams,  a  picture  for  the 
soul,  the  ideal  lighted  a-tip-toe  on  the  world 
from  distant  realms  of  beauty.  No  valiant  seek 
er  for  the  holy  grail  inadvertently  chancing  on 
his  heart's  desire  could  have  been  more  stilled 
with  satisfaction.  I  knew  instantly  that  I  had 
come  into  mine  own. 

We  drew  near  the  wonder.  Great  cloud 
shadows  massed  across  its  woods  and  fields. 
The  westering  sun  shot  occasional  glances  from 
the  virile  sky.  A  motley  collection  of  wharves 
and  sheds  and  decrepit  piles  and  island  craft  in 
dicated  the  center  of  human  activity;  while,  in 
a  dazzling  white  zig-zag  down  the  hill  behind 
the  fishing  village,  the  wall  of  the  road  leading 
to  the  ancient  fort  stood  out  in  sharp  design. 
Here  and  there  on  the  near-by  hills  were  block 
houses  and  fortifications,  all  of  the  same  snowy 
white  that  only  fresh  whitewash  can  give  to  di 
lapidated  structures.  Although  unknown  to  me 
at  the  time,  Mackinaw  is  really  not  unlike  in 
appearance  some  out-dated,  fortified  island  of 
the  Old  World. 

A  solstice  of  delight  followed.  We  lived  in 
tents  on  the  bluff  underneath  Robinson's  Folly. 
The  members  of  the  camping  party,  even  my 
own  relatives,  are  to  me — and  indeed  were  then 

18 


—like  wraiths  of  another  sphere  coming  and  go 
ing  in  meaningless  fashion  among  the  genuinely 
serious  interests  of  life.  The  tents  themselves 
stand  out  as  clearly  in  my  recollection  as  they 
stood  literally  against  their  background  of  pines 
and  cedars.  I  loved  the  tents.  There  were  five 
of  them  besides  the  large  central  one,  beyond 
which  was  the  lean-to  kitchen  built  of  boughs 
where  our  colored  cook  performed  prodigies  of 
valour  like  the  skilled  prestidigitator  that  he 
was.  Before  the  tents  a  steep,  low-wooded  de 
clivity  sloped  to  the  shore  of  gleaming  boulders 
and  the  tumbling  waters  of  Lake  Huron  that 
stretched  southward.  The  tents,  yes,  I  loved  the 
tents,  every  flap  and  rope  and  peg  of  them!  We 
lived  in  them  for  eight  weeks. 

Robinson's  Folly  was  a  steep  cliff  rounding 
the  southeastern  edge  of  the  island.  On  its  top 
cedar  trees  grew  in  thickets  and  among  them, 
following  the  contour  of  the  cliff,  a  straggling 
riband  of  a  footpath  led  the  adventurer  on  and 
on  toward  the  natural  curiosity  of  wave-worn 
stone  called  Arch  Rock.  This  little  path,  so 
friendly  and  yet  so  daring,  was  a  bit  of  reality 
that  led  through  the  enchantment,  a  clew  to  the 
labyrinthian  maze.  With  it  I  have  strange 
associations.  I  knew  it  well ;  but  it  was  not  until 
many  years  afterwards  that  I  began  to  dream 
about  it.  I  was  in  a  foreign  country  when  the 
dream  first  happened,  a  trifle  homesick,  and 
quite  unbidden  there  came  crowding  upon  me 
thoughts  of  the  old  camping-ground,  Robinson's 
Folly,  and  the  resistless,  wayward  path  along  the 
eyebrow  of  the  bluff  at  whose  base  broke  the 
fresh-water  surf.  That  night  I  was  there  in  my 
troubled  sleep,  with  the  unaccountable  amplifi 
cation  that  as  I  was  running  (a  child  again)  the 
way  I  used  to  run  on  that  path  gathering  mo 
mentum  for  a  dash  up  a  succeeding  incline 

19 


everything  quite  suddenly  ended,  the  path,  the 
dream,  and  myself,  at  the  very  spot  where  the 
slight  downward  grade  changed  into  the  upward 
grade. 

I  thought  no  more  of  the  matter.  Then,  sev 
eral  years  later,  I  again  dreamed  the  same  dream 
—a  child  running  down  the  path  along  the  bluff 
of  Robinson's  Folly — and  stopped  again  at  iden 
tically  the  same  point.  During  succeeding 
years  I  have  dreamed  this  dream  a  half  dozen 
times  perhaps,  apparently  with  nothing  in  my 
outer  life  to  suggest  it,  and  always  breaking  off 
short  at  that  same  spot,  which  not  only  marks 
the  change  in  the  momentum  of  the  runner,  but 
from  which  there  can  be  had  a  glimpse  of  a 
strange,  cone-shaped  rock  embedded  in  the 
shore.  Who  can  interpret  the  significance  of 
this  dream  recurrence?  Why  should  every 
thing  always  become  suddenly  blotted  out  at  just 
that  place?  Sometimes  it  has  seemed  like  a  pre 
monition.  Can  destiny  decree  my  return  some 
day  to  Mackinaw,  a  walk  along  the  familiar 
path,  and  an  extinction  of  my  being  at  that  par 
ticular  dip  in  the  way?  I  never  stopped  there 
when  I  was  a  child. 

There  were  other  children  in  the  camping 
party,  two  boys.  The  elder  played  with  me  en 
tirely,  possibly  because  he  had  no  contemporary 
and  preferred  an  adoring  small  girl  to  a  boy  so 
youthfully  inferior  as  to  make  his  questioning  of 
mandates  an  insult.  He  and  I  devised  one  sport 
that  we  cared  for  above  all  others.  The  para 
phernalia  consisted  of  a  barrel  stave  with  a  hole 
bored  in  one  end  of  it,  through  which  was  tied 
a  stout  rope;  and  the  game  itself  was  to  float  this 
barrel  stave,  one  of  us  balanced  nicely  upon  it, 
while  the  other  gently  played  out  the  rope  from 
the  beach.  We  did  this  turn  about,  and  the 
score  ran  neck  and  neck  all  summer  as  to  which 


20 


could  go  the  farthest  before  losing  his  equili 
brium.  The  end  of  the  long  wharf  was  the  out 
ermost  limit  of  achievement,  and  it  is  altogether 
a  wonder  that  we  neither  of  us  was  drowned,  for 
the  upsets  were  many.  It  was  an  interesting  ac 
complishment  in  its  way.  I  wonder  how  many 
people  could  do  it,  young  or  old.  It  requires 
confidence  and  perfect  balance  and  unswerving 
attention  to  the  matter  in  hand,  so  that,  quite 
unconsciously,  in  our  play,  we  became  experts 
of  poise.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  only 
very  young  human  beings  could  do  it  at  all. 

There  were  Indians  at  Mackinaw  then. 
Tamed  Indians,  it  is  true,  and  yet  not  so  tamed 
but  that  they  were  a  fairly  good  sample  of  the 
breed.  I  followed  then  in  fascinated  silence, 
whenever  I  had  a  chance,  to  their  tiny  settlement 
where  the  squaws  wove  baskets  and  fashioned 
various  articles  out  of  birch  bark  for  sale  at 
Fenton's  Bazaar.  They  also  made  delightful 
mococks  of  birch  bark,  ornamented  with  porcu 
pine  quills  and  filled  with  soft,  powdery  maple 
sugar  of  a  consistency  different  from  that  of  any 
other  maple  sugar.  These  were  five  cents 
apiece.  The  curio  shop  was  at  the  head  of  the 
long  wharf,  not  far  from  the  old  John  Jacob 
Astor  House,  an  hotel  that  was  once  the  original 
office  of  the  big  trading  company  and  in  which 
could  be  seen  its  early  account  books. 

It  is  thirty  years  since  I  knew  Mackinaw.  I 
am  told  it  has  become  very  fashionable;  that 
even  the  Mission  House  was  finally  overrun 
with  people;  that  the  cottages  of  wealthy  Chi- 
cagoans  and  Detroiters  are  everywhere;  that  the 
native  Indian-French-English  population  no 
longer  earns  its  living  by  fishing,  but  by  serving 
the  intruder.  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 


21 


II 

A  trip  to  the  coast  of  Maine  several  years  later 
is  a  much  less  distinct  remembrance  than  Michi- 
limackinac.  Although  a  long  summer  was  spent 
at  Mt.  Desert,  only  two  pictures  stand  out  prom 
inently  amid  the  sailing,  the  fishing,  and  the 
beach  camp-fires.  One  of  these  is  the  journey 
from  Portland  up  the  coast,  when  the  whole 
world  seemed  to  be  wrapped  in  an  iridescent, 
drifting  fog  through  which  now  and  then  stray 
islands  broke  or  peeped  or  shimmered.  Mouse 
Island  particularly  enchained  my  fancy.  I 
longed  to  stop  there.  But  our  relentless  and 
persistent  steamer  bore  us  away  into  yet  more 
distant  magics.  The  whole  day  was  a  fairy 
land.  Islands,  islands,  in  every  direction. 

Late  in  the  season,  after  one  of  the  innumer 
able  sails  up  Somes  Sound  in  the  yacht  of  which 
we  had  the  exclusive  use,  we  were  one  night  be 
calmed.  All  that  day  a  fair  breeze  had  stood 
by,  but  at  sundown  it  flickered  out.  We  were 
miles  away  from  our  hotel.  The  party  was  too 
large  to  be  contained  in  the  yacht's  one  small 
rowboat.  Unless  we  wanted  to  spend  the  entire 
night  on  the  yacht,  a  contingency  for  which  none 
were  prepared,  the  only  way  to  return  was  for 
three  or  four  to  go  in  the  rowboat  and  send  as 
quickly  as  possible  other  boats  to  take  off  the  re 
maining  members  of  the  party.  It  would  be  a 
slow  return  at  best.  But  it  was  that  return, 
about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  a  boat  al 
most  level  with  the  dark,  cold  waters,  that  con 
stitutes  the  other  picture.  At  every  dip  of  the 
oars,  strokes  that  were  long,  leisurely  and  even, 
into  the  mysterious  liquid  over  which  we  were 
gliding,  myriad  phosphorescent  bubbles  and 
balls  and  tortuous  twistings  broke  into  life,  trail 
ing  off  into  the  depths  with  golden  uncertain 


22 


ramblings.  Or,  again,  the  appearance  of  the 
sea  was  as  if  a  million  golden  ducats  had  been 
suddenly  emptied  overboard. 

Above  was  another  world  of  golden  sparkles, 
for  it  was  a  clear,  cool,  calm,  starlight  night. 
Our  small  and  insignificant  craft  seemed  sus 
pended  in  the  universe — for  an  illimitable 
period.  Time  and  eternity  had  found  each 
other. 

Ill 

Two-thirds  of  the  way  across  the  Atlantic 
from  New  York  lie  "certaine  flitting  isles,"  at 
once  pastoral  and  barren,  possessed  of  forbid 
ding  crags  as  well  as  of  laps  and  hollows  of  moss-- 
like  fields.  They  sleep  through  the  centuries  in 
what  has  been  called  Azorean  Torpor,  do  these 
nine  islands  of  the  lost  Atlantis.  What  matters 
it  to  them  that  they  may  be  the  only  existing 
monument  of  a  traditionary  civilization?  That 
Poseidon  perhaps  once  ruled  the  continent  that 
gave  them  birth?  That  the  daughters  of  the 
Hesperides  are  said  to  have  guarded  their  pre 
cious  apples  somewhere  near  by?  That  Plato 
recorded  the  vanished  glories  of  the  Atlanteans? 
That  a  gigantic  statue  is  said  to  have  once  existed 
on  the  island  of  Corvo — sometimes  called  by 
sailors  the  Isle  of  Marco  because  they  use  it  in 
their  reckonings — astride  the  bare  back  of  a 
horse:  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock;  bareheaded; 
wrapped  in  a  capa  com  bedem;  one  hand  resting 
on  the  mane  of  his  horse  and  the  other  extended, 
the  fingers  folded  with  the  exception  of  the  in 
dex  finger  which  pointed  to 

"the  golden  remote  wild  west  where  the  sea  with 
out  the  shore  is?" 

Like  Sir  Richard  Grenville  I  "fell  in"  with 
the  Azores,  and  the  falling  was  due  to  the  inval- 
idism  of  a  relative  for  whom  a  puzzled  physi- 

23 


cian  had  recommended  a  sea  voyage  as  a  nerve 
sedative.  We  sailed  for  them  in  the  Barque 
Veronica  from  New  Bedford,  and  were  three 
weeks  going  over,  a  resplendent  memory  in  it 
self.  Perhaps,  however,  crossing  the  Atlantic 
in  a  sailing  vessel  is  an  experience  best  enjoyed 
in  one's  youth.  Mature  years  feel  too  keenly 
the  material  deprivations.  Almost  invariably 
and  of  necessity  the  food  is  poor,  the  drinking 
water  tepid,  the  bathing  facilities  limited.  Yet 
to  a  child  such  a  trip  may  be  a  perfected  en 
chantment.  Ah,  the  good  Barque  Veronica! 
She  was  wrecked  many  years  later  in  a  storm 
off  one  of  the  Madeiras.  Disabled,  she  drifted 
out  to  sea  and  was  drowned.  With  her  perished 
all  the  crew  with  the  exception  of  the  Captain, 
Narcisse  d'  Azevado  and  my  particular  friend, 
the  steward,  Jose  de  Costa,  who  was  miraculous 
ly  saved  in  some  way  the  details  of  which  I  have 
never  learned.  He  was  a  tall,  lean  Portuguese, 
with  a  face  as  beautiful  and  clear-cut  as  that  of 
some  old,  fine,  shell  cameo;  and  his  restrictions 
on  plum  duff  were  rigorous  where  I  was  con 
cerned,  for  he  could  never  be  prevailed  upon  to 
give  me  a  third  helping. 

We  visited  all  of  the  nine  islands.  Over  them, 
although  out  of  the  range  of  those  the  farthest 
west  and  east  of  it,  presides  Pico,  the  weather 
prophet  of  the  isles  that  is  so  suggestive  of  the 
pictures  of  Fujiyama.  In  Fayal,  directly  oppo 
site,  we  lingered  three  days.  A  letter  of  intro 
duction  to  Consul  Dabney  there  ensured  us  the 
most  hospitable  attentions.  At  Terceira  I  spent 
several  hours  in  the  care  of  the  ship's  doctor, 
climbing  the  heights  of  the  fortifications  above 
Angra  where  the  captive  African  king  was  al 
ways  busy  in  the  docile  employment  of  basket 
weaving;  eating  fruit  in  the  Public  Gardens; 
buying  gourd  water  bottles  in  the  market;  and 

24 


noting  with  interest  the  great  variety  of  ox-carts. 

But  it  is  St.  Michaels — the  insula  bella  of  the 
group — that  I  know  best  and  love  best.  We 
stopped  at  the  little  English  hotel,  and  it  has 
always  been  one  of  my  happiest  associations;  an 
unconscious  setting  to  many  a  romantic  tale  as 
I  have  read  it;  a  center  of  peace  around  which 
have  revolved  the  phantom  phases  of  my  own 
life.  No  matter  what  changes  have  occurred, 
no  matter  how  tumultuous  events  have  been,  I 
have  always  held  a  sweet  inner  consciousness 
that  there  was  one  place  in  the  world  which  re 
mained  unchangeable  in  its  serenity,  its  garden 
fragrances,  its  human  kindlinesses. 

One  of  the  people  I  met  was  a  lady  living 
by  herself  in  a  pictorial  old  house,  one  of  the 
large  family  connections  of  the  historian  Pres- 
cott.  It  was  her  mother,  William  Hickling 
Prescott's  aunt,  who  acted  as  his  amanuensis 
wrhen  he,  only  nineteen  years  old,  visited  his 
grandfather  who  was  then  United  States  Consul 
at  Ponta  Delgada;  and  she  showed  me  in  her 
album  a  faded  photograph  of  a  daguerreotype 
of  her  famous  cousin  taken  during  his  stay 
there.  The  garden  belonging  to  this  lady  was 
undoubtedly  one  of  the  sweetest  gardens  there 
ever  was;  and  beyond  it  stretched  an  orange 
grove.  It  is  said  that  in  the  days  when  St. 
Michaels  oranges  were  grown  in  large  quantities 
for  shipment  to  England,  the  fragrance  of  the 
blossoms  could  be  often  smelled  by  seamen  who 
were  out  of  sight  of  land. 

Forty  miles  to  the  south  of  St.  Michaels  is  the 
island  of  Santa  Maria,  "a  place  of  no  great 
force,"  as  the  Earl  of  Cumberland  once  upon  a 
time  described  it.  To  me  it  was  always  intense 
ly  interesting  because  of  its  associations  with 
Christopher  Columbus,  who  likewise  "fell  in" 
with  the  Azores,  or  at  least  with  this  one  of 

25 


them,  on  his  return  voyage  from  his  discovery 
of  the  New  World.  Washington  Irving  tells 
the  story  in  his  Life  of  him  whom  the  Spaniards 
called  "the  Stranger  of  the  Threadbare  Cloak:" 
—how  a  terrific  gale  caused  him  to  run  along 
side  the  little  isle  for  shelter;  how,  in  fulfillment 
of  his  vow,  he  intended  to  land  there  and  give 
thanks  to  the  Virgin  for  his  preservation;  how 
he  met  with  hostilities  from  the  Portuguese 
Governor  so  that  he  himself  dared  not  land;  how 
half  of  his  men  did  go  ashore,  however,  and 
walked,  barefooted  and  in  their  shirts,  to  the 
hermitage  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Angels;  how  they 
were  taken  prisoners  by  the  troops,  but  were  fin 
ally  released.  The  Chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Angels  still  stands,  practically  as  it  was  then, 
and  almost  unknown  to  collectors  of  Americana. 
Islands  have  much  to  give,  for  "all  that  is 
beautiful  belongs  to  all  who  love  it." 


IV 


England  and  Manhattan  are  said  to  be  islands. 
But,  however  insular  geographically,  they  are 
not  islands  in  spirit.  They  are  continents.  And 
the  happenings  on  continents  are  history,  either 
personal  or  general,  rather  than  chance  joys. 

How  many  islands,  real  islands,  one  would 
love  to  know!  The  Indies,  East  and  West;  the 
Scilly  Isles;  Cyprus;  lona;  the  Balerics;  and 
Mauritius,  that  is  said  to  rise  and  fall,  however 
imperceptibly,  with  the  tides  of  the  sea.  Then 
there  are  the  hordes  of  vanishing  isles  that  yearly 
are  being  washed  away,  sinking,  sinking,  sink 
ing  to  that  from  whence  they  came.  A  liking 
for  islands  becomes  an  obsession. 

One  that  lies  at  our  doors  and  affords  much 
pleasure  if  taken  rightly  is  Staten  Island.  But 

26 


it  must  always  be  borne  in  mind  that  it  is  what 
we  ourselves  bring  to  the  enchantment  that 
serves  as  interpreter. 

There  are  places  in  the  southern  end  of  Staten 
Island,  particularly  off  over  the  Dongan  Hills, 
that  afford  a  true  breathing-place  to  the  lungs 
and  soul  of  a  pent-up  New  Yorker.  More  than 
once  in  Springtime  or  in  russet  Autumn  have  I 
dropped  earthly  cares,  taken  the  ferry  across  the 
bay,  and  renewed  myself.  When  I  first  began 
doing  this  I  was  led  on  by  a  hope  of  finding  two 
old  Dutch  windmills  that  are  said  to  have  once 
stood  a  few  miles  beyond  South  Beach.  Alas, 
I  never  found  even  a  vestige  of  them.  They 
had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh  long  before  my  day. 
But  I  found  a  wooded  hillside,  part  of  an  ancient 
dismantled  estate,  where  squirrels  ran  riot 
among  the  oak  trees;  and  from  which  could  be 
glimpsed  the  boundless  sand  dunes  and  coppery 
salt  marsh  grasses  mowed  down  by  the  winds. 
It  was  one  of  Nature's  Snug  Harbours;  an  isle 
within  an  island;  one  of  those  "isles  of  idleness" 
that  has  ever  held  my  soul  in  "lingering 
duresse." 

From  the  beach  below  Fort  Wadsworth  I 
beheld  the  conflagration  of  Coney  upon  one  of 
the  occasions  when  it  was  destroyed  only  to  rise 
again,  phoenix-like,  from  its  own  ashes.  The 
time  was  twilight  and  the  sky  and  sea  were 
almost  the  same  colour,  a  sad  slateiness.  Sud 
denly  a  giant  monster  of  flame  and  smoke  sprang 
into  being,  throwing  lurid  light  through  the 
slateiness  to  the  zenith  above  my  head  and  the  si 
lent  water-line  at  my  feet.  One  vast  hand  of  the 
monster  crumpled  eagerly  along  the  roofs  of 
Coney,  gathering  them  in  like  so  much  tissue 
paper,  the  other  flung  disaster  recklessly  to  right 
and  left.  From  my  distant  point  of  view  the 
whole  performance  was  startling  in  its  absolute 

27 


silence.  Not  very  long  after,  the  monster, 
gorged  and  weary,  sank  to  a  replete  repose. 
Only  occasional  belchings  of  smoke  and  fitful 
gleams  of  flame  on  the  nearer  sky  and  sea  record 
ed  the  holocaust. 

I  have  never  been  to  Coney  Island.  When 
people  speak  of  its  awesome  pleasures,  I  revert 
imaginatively  to  the  only  version  of  Coney 
known  to  me.  Nobody  else  knows  that.  Nobody 
else  can  ever  know  it.  I  gloat  over  the  posses 
sion.  It  is  a  picture.  A  picture  typical  of 
grim  force;  of  the  elemental  power  of  fire  be 
fore  which  man's  creations  become  as  if  they 
had  never  been;  of  a  riot  of  colour  such  as  no 
painter  has  ever  dared;  of  silence  ineffable. 


So  in  this  work-a-day  world  we  now  and  then 
chance  upon  island  possessions,  like  oases  in 
"the  desert  of  the  sea." 

Somewhere,  sometime,  there  must  be  an  ulti 
mate  island.  Will  it  be  one  of  those  fugitive, 
alluring,  vanishing  visions  that  led  St.  Brenan 
on  and  out  across  tumultous  and  uncharted 
wastes?  Never  was  a  mad  chase  after  bliss 
more  elusive  than  his. 

But  perhaps  all  Islands  of  the  Blest  are  not 
so  unattainable.  Let  us  ship  with  a  stout  heart 
as  able  seamen  and  sail  away. 

At  the  vanishing-point  on  the  horizon : — there 
will  be  the  ultimate  island.  However  we  steer 
our  course,  good  old-fashioned  faith  in  Provi 
dence  and  the  quintessence  of  Bohemianism  be 
come  almost  undistinguishable  one  from  the 
other  by  the  time  we  reach  the  vanishing-point. 


28 


THE  ICE  DRAGON  AND  THE  SUN  GOD. 

(Published  in  Poet  Lore,  Spring,  1908.) 

In  the  far  and  gleaming  North  lay  the  Ice 
Dragon,  fast  asleep.  His  great  lazy  length  was 
coiled  and  looped  among  the  icebergs;  his  head 
was  pillowed  against  the  North  Pole;  the  Au 
rora  Borealis  cast  shafts  of  stately  light  across 
his  repose. 

After  infinite  slumber,  certain  slight  dream- 
ings  half  disturbed  him.  He  moved  uneasily, 
and  his  ragged  fins  cracked  against  the  icefloes 
so  that  the  sound  was  somewhat  like  a  bitter 
wind  among  icicles.  The  shifting  lights  gleam 
ed  pellucid  on  his  green  and  scintillating  skin, 
while  an  occasional  shaft  revealed  the  colour  of 
his  sides,  and  that  colour  was  of  a  dull  orange. 
But  the  ridge  of  his  whole  great  tortuous  body 
was  luminously  black,  like  black  crystal. 

Gradually  he  raised  his  eyelids,  heavy  with 
the  hoar  rime  of  sleep,  and  the  orbs  of  his  eyes 
were  like  twin  winter  sunsets,  round  and  very 
large,  with  a  straight  horizon  line  across  the  cen 
ter  of  each.  Above  this  line  was  the  half  of  a 
pupil,  like  a  setting  sun  in  a  cold  sea,  from  which 
orange  and  lemon  lights  were  reflected  in  the 
semicircle  of  the  eye  below  the  horizon  line. 

The  polar  ice  loosened  somewhat.  The  Ice 
Dragon  uncoiled  himself,  and,  slowly  swaying 
from  side  to  side,  shook  himself  free.  Quivers 
of  life  travelled  up  and  down  his  orange  colored 
sides.  The  sunset  lights  of  his  eyes  became 
more  lurid  than  they  had  been  heretofore. 
Lazily  he  rolled  like  a  porpoise  at  play;  making 
his  way  into  a  more  open  space,  lashing  the  half- 
frozen  waters  with  his  mighty  tail.  Dim  va 
pours  beset  his  eyes. 

A  glacier,  long  encradled  among  the  ice 
mountains,  he  now  descended  on  waves  of  ava- 

29 


lanche.  Young,  trembling  trees  were  swept 
aside.  Boulders  were  flung  high  out  of  his  im 
perious  way.  Monarchs  of  the  forest  yielded 
unquestioning  homage.  Wild  crags  were  hurl 
ed  and  crushed  before  him.  On,  on,  and  yet 
again  on,  across  all  the  lands  of  the  earth  he 
made  his  progress. 

Then,  quite  unexpectedly,  he  met  the  Sun 
God. 

The  Sun  God  had  come  up  from  the  home  of 
gold  where  the  valley  floor  is  as  green  as  emer 
ald;  where  butterflies  of  great  size  and  of  lumin 
ous  iridescent  colours  are  ever  fluttering  about, 
and  where  birds  of  sweet  song  and  gorgeous 
plumage  rest  in  the  foliage  of  the  fruit  trees. 
The  skies  above  him  are  always  of  serene  sap 
phire  blue.  And  the  river  running  through  that 
valley  is  as  the  fountain  of  life  itself;  indeed,  it 
is  the  Fountain  of  Life. 

Across  the  brow  of  the  Sun  God  was  writ  in 
the  spirit  of  flame  the  word  Abracadabra,  which 
is  his  name  among  certain  ancient  peoples  of  the 
world,  and  in  his  right  hand  he  carried  a  divin 
ing  rod  whose  magic  power  was  that  of  alchemy 
to  transmute  all  base  metals  into  gold.  His 
beautiful  hair  of  light  streamed  like  golden  ban 
ners  up  into  the  radiant  skies. 

Wonderful  was  the  combat  that  ensued  be 
tween  the  Ice  Dragon  and  the  Sun  God.  Day 
after  day  they  struggled.  First  one  was  victori 
ous  and  then  the  other  was  victorious.  Earth, 
the  battlefield,  shook  beneath  the  weight  of  con 
test.  Moist  equatorial  winds  and  gentle  rains 
were  urged  by  the  Sun  God  into  his  service  to 
cloud  the  vision  of  his  adversary;  and  the 
streaming  mists  from  the  deadly  contortions  of 
the  Ice  Dragon  were  lifted  by  the  Sun  God  unto 
himself. 


30 


Finally  the  potent  Sun  prevailed.  Before 
the  omniscient  forces  of  light  and  heat  the  con 
vulsive  struggles  of  his  foe  died  down.  The  Ice 
Dragon  became  entirely  lost  and  incorporated 
into  the  Nirvana  of  Flame. 

Then  said  the  Sun  God: 

"I  am  the  Soul  of  the  World." 

And  the  whole  earth  became  joyous  and  fair 
to  look  upon. 

"I  temper  the  steel  of  the  world." 

And  the  earth  approached  him. 

"Where  light  shines  there  also  force  radiates." 

And  the  valleys  unfolded. 

"I  am  the  symbol  of  Eternity." 

And  butterflies  came  into  existence. 

"The  heat  of  motion  expands  the  soul." 

And  the  metamorphosis  of  secret  flame — in 
spiration — sprang  upward  in  agitated  rapture. 

The  Sun  God  ran  his  hands  along  the  sides  of 
the  mountains,  and  forests  leaped  forward  at  his 
touch — forests  whose  golden  lights  and  thou 
sands  of  sylvan  genii  greeted  their  Master  with 
song.  Praises  of  the  great  Spirit  of  Life  re 
sounded  also  from  the  mountain  heights.  Waters 
came  leaping  and  laughing  down  from  the  up 
land  valleys.  Rainbows  shimmered.  The  Sun 
God  plucked  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  breathed 
upon  them,  and  they  flew  away  upon  the  air  as 
birds. 

Always  upon  the  lips  of  the  Sun  God  was  the 
sweet  word  Aprilis,  which  meaneth  "to  open." 
It  was  the  password  of  his  law.  It  was  the  eric 
of  his  wisdom. 

Then  the  Sun  God  rested  after  his  triumph: 
while  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
land  went  the  proclamation: 

"The  Sun  God  has  laid  his  invisible  hand  up 
on  the  earth." 

The  Red  Men  said: 


"The  Ice  Dragon  is  slain." 

The  White  Men  merely  noticed  that  Spring 
had  come  again. 

And  Women  said : 

"We  must  have  new  garments.  What  are  the 
present  fashions?" 


DESTINY. 

Deep  in  the  northern  forests  lived  a  Pine  Tree. 
She  was  young  and  strong,  and  there  breathed 
from  her  the  Spirit  of  the  Joy  of  Life.  At  all 
times  did  she  whisper  pleasing  thoughts  into  the 
still,  sweet  solitude  of  her  own  heart. 

During  the  summers,  birds  from  afar  rested 
within  her  arms;  breezes  sighed  out  their  melo 
dies  for  her  understanding;  gentle  rains  freshen 
ed  her;  grey  and  red  lichens  spread  themselves 
at  her  feet. 

During  the  winters,  hail  stung  her  sharply; 
snows  cast  their  weight  upon  her;  wet  cloud  en 
circled  her  head;  the  cold  caused  her  to  tingle 
and  exult. 

She  loved  her  life,  nor  knew  that  what  she 
loved  could  be  to  her  undoing. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  the  knowledge  of 
this  was  given  her.  It  was  at  the  time  of  the 
year  when  all  things  were  ripe;  when,  for  almost 
a  week,  a  somber  silence  had  hung  over  the  hill 
sides  and  the  leaves  of  the  forests  had  hardly 
dared  to  breathe.  Even  the  squirrels  had  ceased 
their  gibbering  and  looked  askance.  Then  the 
Master  of  the  Storm  bestirred  himself.  Wild 
creatures  crept  to  hiding.  A  steady  whispering 
of  conflict  spread  itself  abroad.  The  clouds  be 
came  dark  as  night  and  swirled  like  the  seething 
in  a  cauldron.  Lightnings  quivered.  Thund 
ers  broke  through  all  the  uproar.  The  rain  beat 
down.  The  forests  bent  their  heads. 

When  the  Storm  had  passed  and  the  shy  Sun 
gave  a  watery  look  around,  he  saw  that  the  Pine 
Tree  had  been  scorched  and  seared.  She  stood 
as  erect  as  ever;  as  tall  as  ever;  as  unfaltering  as 
ever;  but,  from  the  crown  to  the  ground,  a  great, 
twisted,  gaping  wound  had  driven  into  her  very 
heart.  She  was  bereft  of  her  symmetry;  bereft 

33 


of  her  graceful  outreaching  lengths;  bereft  of 
the  Joy  of  Life. 

For  many  months  the  Pine  Tree  stood  half 
dead.  Then,  in  one  fair  springtime,  a  slight 
stirring  of  the  sap  awoke  a  dim  consciousness. 
The  stirring  quickened;  and,  in  one  place  less 
numbed  than  the  rest,  a  few  tender  twigs  crept 
forth. 

Finding  the  outer  world  genial,  the  tender 
twigs  enlarged  and  throve  until  they  formed 
quite  a  cluster  two-thirds  up  the  trunk  of  the 
Pine  Tree.  And  they  whispered  into  the 
wounded  heart: 

"There  is  still  something  to  live  for." 

"Possibly,"  said  the  Pine  Tree. 

"Life  is  very  beautiful." 

"I  know  that,"  said  the  Pine  Tree. 

Then  she  made  a  great  effort  and  roused  her 
self  and  threw  out  more  twigs. 

But,  when  she  had  done  all  that  she  could, 
there  still  remained  the  deep  scar  of  her  heart 
and  her  sheer  naked  length  towering  far  above 
the  bushy  green,  up,  up,  toward  the  eternal  sky. 

Finally,  she  ceased  all  effort.  The  green 
clung  to  her  sides  and  flourished  somewhat  as 
she  stood — waiting. 

Yet,  even  in  her  shattered  plight,  so  strong  and 
high  was  she  that  an  eagle  rested  on  her  topmost 
branch. 


34 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL. 
I 

The  Canyon  of  Chaco  is  one  of  those  long  and 
mighty  gulches  that  have  been  cloven  by  the  tor 
rents  of  past  and  changing  ages  down,  down, 
and  yet  again  down,  from  the  heights  of  the 
grim  old  snowcaps  to  the  level  of  the  prairies 
where  it  finally  debouches  in  great  waves  of 
earth  suggesting  the  undulations  of  a  grey-green 
sea  that,  ever  rising  and  yet  ever  beaten  down 
by  a  compelling  wind,  now  and  then,  in  wanton 
playfulness,  flings  out  upon  the  air  a  snatch  of 
gleaming  spray. 

Upon  the  crest  of  these  transfixed  billows, 
and  almost  within  the  jaws  of  the  Canyon  of 
Chaco,  there  rests  a  lap  of  park-like  land, 
fringed  about  its  outer  edges  with  gnarled 
and  twisted  tamaracks,  through  the  venerable 
branches  of  which  the  night  winds  always  croon. 
Their  roots  cradle  a  thicket  of  wild  roses;  and, 
far  above  and  beyond  them,  the  Navajo  Moun 
tains  form  a  jagged  line  of  white  against  the 
skies. 

A  man  passed — one  night  many  years  ago — 
along  the  trail  that  had  been  trodden  by  the  feet 
of  passing  men  on  the  lowest  level  of  the  Canyon. 
His  movement  was  quiet  and  rapid;  and  an 
Apache  would  have  noted  that  he  walked  in  the 
Mexican  manner,  with  his  toes  turned  out. 

Over  his  sinewy  shoulders  was  slung  a  white 
buffalo  hide,  caught  by  a  clasp  of  roughly  hewn 
green  turquoise  wrought  with  the  workmanship 
of  an  ancient  people. 

In  one  hand  he  carried  a  club  that  had  been 
curiously  carved  from  the  horn  of  a  giant  elk. 

As  the  defile  opened  suddenly  beyond  the 
tamaracks  he  came  to  a  cautious  halt. 


35 


Directly  before  him  was  the  unexpected  glow 
of  a  newly  made  fire,  and  his  quick  eyes  discern 
ed  a  rim  of  dark  human  forms  sitting  and  lying 
about  on  the  ground.  All  was  silence,  except 
for  the  occasional  falling  of  an  ember,  the  wind 
in  the  tamaracks,  and  the  near-by  bubbling  of  a 
spring  that  nourished  the  wild  rose  thicket. 

The  stranger  threw  himself  full  length  on  the 
ground  to  study  details.  These  men  before  him 
were  not  preparing  for  slumber,  he  concluded. 
Their  attitude  was  that  of  waiting  for  the  hap 
pening  of  an  event. 

About  the  fire  they  had  built  a  gigantic  corral 
of  the  logs  of  pinyon  wood,  cedar,  and  juniper, 
interwoven  with  brush.  On  the  far  side  of  this 
"Circle  of  Darkness" — as  it  was  called  by  those 
who  made  it — what  seemed  to  be  Shaman  moved 
in  and  out  among  the  shadows;  and  close  to  its 
inner  circle  squatted  a  dozen  or  more  Apache 
youths,  with  drums  placed  before  them. 

The  stranger  crawled  slowly  forward,  with 
great  care  and  an  odd  precision  of  motion,  until 
he  was  quite  close.  Then  he  rested  a  moment, 
for  he  felt  himself  to  be  heavy  with  the  weari 
ness  of  the  body — having  already  lost  four  sleeps 
in  succession. 

Suddenly,  he  arose  to  his  full  height.  He 
straightened  himself  far  beyond  a  perpendicular 
position  until  he  was  like  a  well  drawn  and  thor 
oughly  seasoned  bow,  and — himself  the  sturdy 
arrow  likewise,  sent  to  the  bulls-eye  of  his  own 
strong  purpose — strode  fearlessly  into  the  ring 
of  firelight  that  revealed  his  presence.  The 
light  also  showed  a  lock  of  white  hair  in  the 
tangled  mass  of  black,  that  hung  strangely  over 
his  left  temple  in  such  a  way  as  to  suggest  a  mis 
laid  tuft  from  his  buffalo  skin. 

There  was  an  instant  alarm.  There  was  a 
confused  reaching  out  for  weapons.  There  was 

36 


a  throttled  murmur  of  menace. 

Quickly,  the  stranger  laid  his  horn  club  before 
him  on  the  ground,  indicating  by  this  action 
that  he  placed  himself  at  their  mercy. 

"I  claim  the  right  of  asylum,"  he  said  in  a 
strange  patois  of  Spanish  and  the  Apache 
dialect. 

The  dark  men  paused. 

One  of  the  Chiefs  stepped  out  in  advance  of 
the  others.  Paint  was  streaked  fantastically 
across  his  cheeks;  his  arms  and  wrists  were 
adorned  with  bracelets;  a  pair  of  short  skin  leg 
gings  encased  his  legs;  and  his  breechclout  was 
held  by  a  girdle  of  human  skin.  From  his 
shoulders  fell  a  hide  jacket  that  was  fringed  with 
scalp  locks;  and  his  own  long  hair  was  adorned 
with  a  profusion  of  eagle  feathers  that  had  been 
dyed  red. 

This  personage  advanced  with  a  swaying  mo 
tion  like  that  of  a  python  snaring  its  prey. 

"What  is  your  people?" 

"I  am  of  the  people  of  the  First  of  the  Seven 
Lineages  whose  only  God  is  the  Sun." 

"And  what  of  them?" 

"They  are  the  Nation  of  the  Seeds  of  Flow 
ers." 

"From  what  lands?" 

"From  the  Place  of  the  Herons." 

"And  of  what  clan  art  thou?" 

"Of  the  Clan  of  the  Wolf  that  is  white." 

"What  know  we  of  the  Wolf  that  is  white?" 

"The  Wolf  that  is  white  is  he  before  whom 
the  Chinchimecas  hide  their  face." 

"Where  did  the  Chinchimecas  hide  their 
face?" 

"Upon  the  banks  of  the  Great  Lake." 

"When  was  this?" 

"The  Chinchimecas  hid  their  face  in  the  day 
when  the  Voice  fell  from  Heaven." 


37 


"What  said  the  Voice  from  Heaven  to  the 
Chinchimecas?" 

"The  Voice  from  Heaven  cried  unto  the 
Chinchimecas  on  that  day  when  they  hid  their 
face,  'O,  my  Children,  the  time  of  your  destruc 
tion  is  come!'  It  was  as  the  voice  of  a  woman 
in  pain." 

By  this  speech  the  Apaches  knew  that  he  be 
longed  to  the  Parcialidades,  the  first  of  the  seven 
great  divisions  of  the  Aztecs;  and  that  he  came 
from  the  province  of  Aztlan  in  Mexico  that, 
according  to  the  Spanish  Chronicler,  "continued 
a  long  time  mightie." 

A  second  stalwart  warrior  stepped  into  the 
light  and  said: 

"Thou  art  then  our  brother.  We  are  of  the 
Coyote  Clan." 

"I  am  the  Wolf  of  the  Sun,"  said  the  first 
Chieftain. 

"Me  they  call  Lone  Wolf,"  said  the  stranger. 

Whereupon  his  right  of  asylum  for  the  night 
was  acknowledged  by  all,  and  he  was  conducted 
to  the  lodge  of  the  Medicine  Men. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  colloquy,  the 
youths  about  the  fire  had  begun  a  crooning  chant 
to  the  accompaniment  of  slurred  drum  beats. 

Presently  a  number  of  the  others  broke  from 
the  ring  of  logs  behind  which  they  had  been 
crouching;  and  yelling  like  lost  souls,  formed  in 
a  circle  about  the  now  blazing  fire.  They  were 
entirely  naked  and  perfectly  white,  having 
smeared  themselves  with  some  substance  that 
caused  their  bodies  to  glisten  like  marble.  Each 
carried  an  unlighted  torch  of  shredded  cedar 
bark. 

Gradually,  almost  creepingly,  their  irregular 
steps  assumed  a  more  decided  swing;  and  as  his 
fancy  dictated,  each  adopted  a  pose — now  that 
of  a  conqueror;  then  that  of  one  who  was 

38 


threatening  a  foe  above  him,  or,  again,  striking 
a  foe  that  was  fallen.  One  warrior  minced  along 
like  a  village  girl  at  a  rustic  dance.  Another 
bowed  gracefully  to  right  and  left  as  he  circled. 

Many  darted  toward  the  furnace  in  their 
midst,  trying  to  light  their  torches  at  its  outer 
edge.  Again  and  again  they  tried  this,  some 
times  singly  and  in  one  dash,  and  sometimes  sev 
eral  of  them  in  unison  with  an  undulatory 
motion.  Some  cast  themselves  upon  the  ground 
and  approached  the  blaze  upon  their  stomachs 
like  writhing  serpents. 

At  last,  one  by  one,  they  accomplished  the 
feat.  Then,  all  the  torches  flaming  noisily,  the 
capering,  blanched  figures  began  racing  madly 
after  each  other  around  the  roaring  center.  As 
it  became  possible  for  them  to  do  so,  they  spat 
upon  each  other  to  secure  the  mystic  protection 
of  the  Powers  Invisible. 

On,  on  they  dashed ;  in  a  state  of  frenzied  an 
tics,  all  the  time  emitting  piercing  yells.  Each 
lashing  the  Brave  before  him,  or  rubbing  the 
fire-brand  against  himself,  they  soon  became  like 
maniacs,  literally  enveloped  in  flame. 

Finally  a  brand  of  one  of  the  fire  magicians 
burned  low  and  went  out.  Dropping  it,  he 
rushed  from  the  Circle.  In  due  time  another; 
and  then  yet  another;  went  forth.  Before  long 
they  had  all  vanished. 

An  aged  Medicine  Man,  accompanied  by  a 
youth,  then  arose,  amid  the  monotonous  whir 
ring  of  the  drums.  The  fire  was  rapidly  dying 
down. 

Presently,  the  Venerable  One,  taking  a  bowl 
from  his  assistant,  lifted  it  high  above  his  head 
and  poured  from  it  a  slender  stream  of  water 
upon  the  embers,  pronouncing  as  he  did  so,  in 
solemn  tones,  the  Prayer  of  Dismantling. 

39 


As  the  night  had  advanced,  its  quiet  stateliness 
had  become  troubled  by  brooding  clouds  that 
wound  their  way  down  from  the  fastnesses  of  the 
range. 

The  Apaches  lay  upon  their  backs  and  a  great 
silence  held  them.  To  their  understanding,  a 
battle  of  the  elements  in  mid-air,  in  that  place 
and  following  their  Dance  of  Death,  was  sym 
bolic  of  a  coming  warfare  between  men,  when 
the  dead  would  lie  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
and  starvation  and  pestilence  would  stalk 
abroad.  They  believed  that  the  Cini  Cigini,  or 
Sacred  People,  fought  in  the  elements:  and 
the  Cini  Cigini  waged  bitter  conflict  that  night. 
Phantom  cries  rent  the  air.  Flights  of  arrows 
hurtled.  Occasional  weapons  clashed. 

Gradually,  towards  dawn,  the  leaden  heavens 
became  less  tumultuous  and  took  on  a  less 
sombre  hue.  And,  at  last,  across  the  undulating 
seas  of  prairie  that  stretched  away  to  the  east 
ward,  there  shot  out  a  gleam  of  orange  light  as 
the  Lord  of  Fire  and  Light  and  Life,  in  whose 
propitious  ceremonial  of  the  Death  Dance  the 
Apaches  had  just  participated,  lifted  a  heavy 
eyelid  upon  the  world. 

II 

The  Apaches  were  a  proud  and  warlike  race, 
not  meriting)  at  this  time,  the  title  of  'Ishmae- 
lites  of  the  West'  by  which  they  were  afterwards 
known.  They  were  on  the  lands  that  had  been 
theirs  for  generations :  yet — after  they  destroyed 
in  1670  the  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola  that  "mak- 
eth  shew  to  bee  a  faire  citie"  as  says  the  Chron 
icler,  Fray  Marcos — the  hand  of  every  man 
turned  against  them. 

Not  only  were  they  at  bitter  enmity  with  the 
Quiviras  whom  they  had  overcome,  but  also 
with  the  Spanish  of  the  Mexican  border.  This 

40 


came  about  when  several  of  the  Zuni  villages 
threw  themselves  upon  the  protection  of  the 
Apache-Navajos,  against  the  Spanish  subjuga 
tion  which  had  been  in  process  for  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  or  more. 

It  had  been  a  mistaken  step  on  the  part  of  the 
Zunis,  the  'Silent  People.'  The  temptation  of 
seizing  the  helpless  villages  for  their  own  was 
too  great  for  the  Apaches  to  withstand.  Know 
ing  well  the  spirit  of  their  one  time  foes,  but 
now  needy  suppliants,  and  that  the  strength  of 
despair  which  had  so  long  held  out  against  the 
Spanish  would  enable  them  to  resist  their  yet 
more  ancient  enemy,  the  Apaches  assembled  in 
great  numbers,  with  reinforcements  from  the 
people  beyond,  as  the  Apaches  called  their  tribal 
brethren,  the  Navajos,  on  the  far  side  of  the 
mountains.  The  appeal  of  the  Zunis  had  been 
a  desperate  one;  and  now  the  Apaches  would 
have  not  only  the  Zunis,  but  also  the  Spanish,  to 
contend  with. 

Among  the  gathering  were  many  clans  and 
bands,  such  as  the  Apache  Mojaves,  and  the 
Apache  Yumas,  and  a  few  of  the  very  blood 
thirsty  Chiricahua  Apaches.  There  were  also 
some  of  the  cliff-dwelling  Sobaypuris,  and  some 
of  the  Nakaydi  or  descendants  of  Mexican  cap 
tives,  the  Tontos,  and  the  Coyote  Clan.  When 
on  the  war-path,  all  these  ramifications  of  the 
great  Apache-Navajo  tribe  camped  together 
and  went  into  battle  side  by  side  against  the  com 
mon  enemy. 

It  was  the  season  when  the  buffaloes  had  mi 
grated  to  the  north;  the  season  called  by  the 
grim  Apache  savages  the  "Mexican  Moon" 
because  of  its  being  the  time  of  their  annual 
raids  upon  the  Spanish  frontier. 

Near  the  borderland  of  what  is  now  Texas, 
but  which  the  Spanish  called  Isleta,  the  pueblos 

41 


of  the  Zunis — frail  villages  of  poles  and  brush 
wood — dragged  out  their  last  few  days  of  pre 
carious  existence.  In  the  amber  light  of 
morning  sunshine,  after  the  storm,  smoke  curled 
up  in  dreamy  spirals.  Hundreds  of  mustangs 
dotted  the  upper  plains,  whose  gentle  undula 
tions  were  of  a  rich  velvety  verdure  studded  with 
occasional  sand  lilies  and  flowering  cactii. 

Upon  this  inviting  picture  the  Apaches  swept 
down,  about  three  thousand  strong,  from  the 
towering  western  cliffs  of  milk-white  quartz  that 
were  rimmed  with  deep  green  pine  foliage. 

A  distant  roar  like  that  from  a  sea-shell,  a 
small  voice  of  an  infinite  noise,  heralded  their 
approach.  Like  a  whirlwind  of  the  desert  they 
came,  riding  their  little  prairie  trained  ponies. 

The  villages  were  stricken  with  a  palsy  of  ter 
ror.  They  had  hoped  till  the  last  moment  that 
their  old  time  foes  would  grant  them  protection 
against  the  common  enemy  of  the  Spanish;  that, 
as  members  of  the  great  aboriginal  families,  the 
internal  feud  would  be  temporarily  lost  sight  of. 

But  now  they  knew  their  fate.  They  were  at 
the  mercy  of  the  yellow,  painted  demons:  and, 
while  certain  warrior  bands  made  ready  to  with 
stand  the  onslaught,  these  did  it  more  as  a  matter 
of  habit  than  of  conviction,  for  they  in  reality 
shared  the  general  feeling  that  their  time  had 
come. 

Nothing  short  of  a  miracle  could  have  saved 
them;  and  no  miracle  happened.  War  was  be 
gun  in  the  usual  infernal  fashion.  Blood  was 
freely  shed;  cries  and  curses  rent  the  air;  the 
mustangs  stampeded  and,  breaking  into  a  lope, 
were  soon  at  the  vanishing  point  on  the  horizon. 
The  fire  demons  were  loosened  and,  in  an  incred 
ibly  short  time,  the  Zuni  pueblos — all  that  had 
remained  of  the  famous  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola 
—were  ruin  and  smoldering  ashes. 

42 


Rushing  furiously  in  the  footsteps  of 
slaughter  and  flame,  the  soldier  of  fortune,  Ton- 
saroyoo,  or  Lone  Wolf — he  who  had  claimed 
the  right  of  asylum — entered  an  adobe  hut  from 
the  interior  of  which  smoke  was  rising.  A  cur 
tain  of  dressed  buffalo  hide  hung  at  the 
entrance;  and  a  small  blue  flame,  dimly  burning 
on  a  tripod  in  the  center  of  the  single  room,  fit 
fully  lighted  the  interior  so  that  he  could  distin 
guish  a  number  of  low  couches  ranged  round  the 
walls. 

Seeing  nothing  that  he  wanted,  he  was  about 
to  go  out  again,  when  his  knees  knocked  against 
something  soft  in  the  smoke. 

Quickly  on  the  defensive,  he  was  about  to 
strike  a  downward  blow,  when  his  vision  cleared 
sufficiently  for  him  to  distinguish  a  slender  little 
girl,  whose  eyes  of  sapphire  blue  were  raised  to 
him  more  in  grief  and  wonder  than  in  alarm. 
Something  in  her  attitude  of  trust  caused  him  to 
pause. 

"My  father,  thou  hast  at  last  come  for  me," 
she  said  in  Spanish. 

As  she  uttered  the  words,  she  saw  her  mistake. 
Bursting  into  violent  sobbing,  she  sank  upon  the 
hardened  earth  floor  and  clasped  the  feet  of 
Lone  Wolf. 

With  an  unaccountable  surge  of  tenderness  in 
his  heart,  Lone  Wolf  lifted  her  up.  She  clung 
to  him  in  an  utter  abandonment  of  grief,  mur 
muring  broken  words.  He  noticed  that  in  one 
hand  she  held  a  baked  clay  doll  with  curiously 
twisted  arms;  and,  also,  that  about  her  throat 
she  wore  a  tiny  crucifix  of  the  sacred  Chalchi- 
huitl  or  Turquoise. 

"Friend,  friend,"  she  sobbed,  "Is  it  not  a 
friend?" 

"Why  not?"  he  whispered  soothingly. 

43 


And,  tossing  her  to  his  shoulder,  he  stole  away 
with  less  noise  in  his  going  than  an  autumn  leaf 
in  its  fall. 

"Thy  name,  little  one?"  He  spoke  to  her  in 
the  sweet  Spanish  diminutives  from  the  first. 

"Rosita  Zamacona,"  she  answered  promptly. 

"Rosita — little  Rose — ay,  thou  art  a  little 
rose!" 

That  she  was  of  good  Spanish  parentage  there 
could  be  no  doubt.  Indeed,  she  herself  knew 
that  she  was  a  descendant  of  one  of  those  follow 
ers  of  Coronado  who,  a  century  earlier,  had  pen 
etrated  farther  north  than  they  were  aware  in 
their  search  for  the  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola. 
Having  settled  among  the  tribes  of  the  north  of 
Mexico,  they  had  in  time  become  so  identified 
with  them  as  to  be  neutral  witnesses  of  the  con 
flict  that  came  about  at  a  later  period  between 
the  Spanish  and  the  Indians;  and  this  child  of 
brave  and  adventurous  pioneers  had  the  advan 
tages  of  her  Indian  association  with  those  of  her 
inherited  tastes  and  traditions. 

Now,  with  no  guardian  and  no  playmate  but 
this  unknown  hero  who  had  come  to  her  out  of 
the  smoke,  she  wandered  on,  day  after  day,  over 
the  face  of  the  earth.  Such  is  the  chance  of  war 
and  of  women. 

When  she  was  weary,  he  carried  her.  When 
she  was  grieved,  he  solaced  her.  When  she 
hungered,  he  gathered  what  he  could  from  nig 
gardly  nature  to  satisfy  her.  For  days  and  days 
they  lived  on  the  tips  of  willows  and  the  bark  of 
trees,  regretting  that  the  season  of  tasajo  and 
pinyon  nuts  was  not  with  them,  and  that  they 
could  derive  no  sustenance  from  the  yucca  weed, 
called  by  the  Spanish  Fathers  "the  candle-stick 
of  Our  Lord." 

But  every  season  was  theirs  in  time,  for  almost 
a  year  and  a  half  were  they  in  crossing  the  land. 

44 


They  covered  leagues  of  dusty  grey  sage  bush 
prairie,  following  Indian  trails  past  the  brown 
buffaloes  grazing  on  the  stilled  heaving  of  the 
uplands:  along  the  lines  of  silvery  trembling 
cottonwoods  that  marked  the  course  of  some  in 
verted  river  such  as  there  are  many  of  in  the 
west,  with  their  water  underneath  and  their 
sandy  beds  on  top,  crossing  the  big  ones  on  rafts 
and  fording  the  small  ones:  skirting  many  vil 
lages  and  surmounting  many  mesas:  seeing 
bleaching  bones  of  many  men  and  animals  and 
the  charred  ashes  of  prairie  fires.  The  Indian 
and  buffalo  trails  were  found  by  them  in  even 
better  state  of  transit  than  were  those  found  by 
de  Soto  and  the  early  explorers. 

Finally,  threading  through  mountain  passes, 
they  struck  into  one  of  the  great  trails  from  east 
to  west  by  which  Cabega  de  Vaca  crossed  the 
continent.  Week  after  week,  and  month  after 
month  they  wrent  onward,  led,  as  Lone  Wolf  ex 
plained  to  Rosita,  by  Michabo,  the  Great  White 
Hare — by  which  he  meant  the  Dawn  of  a  New 
Day — Michabo,  whose  father  was  the  West 
Wind  and  whose  mother  was  the  Moon.  And 
he  told  her  the  Indian  story  of  how  Michabo 
had  once  upon  a  time  made  the  wonderful  earth 
upon  which  they  were  out  of  a  grain  of  sand 
brought  from  the  deepest  part  of  the  ocean :  how 
he  set  it  floating  upon  the  waters  until  it  grew 
to  such  a  size  that  a  young  and  mighty  wolf,  con 
stantly  running  around  it,  died  of  old  age  before 
he  reached  the  point  from  which  he  had  started. 

Ill 

One  morning  in  the  light  of  the  early  sunrise, 
the  wanderers  were  preparing  for  yet  another 
day's  journey,  when  they  saw  two  men  standing 
beside  them  on  a  bank  of  the  river  near  where 


45 


they  had  slept.  Both  were  white,  one  a  vener 
able  Spanish  priest  and  the  other  a  young  Dutch 
trapper. 

Greetings  were  exchanged  in  Spanish,  which 
they  all  spoke,  and  Lone  Wolf  and  Rosita  were 
asked  to  breakfast  with  the  others.  After  the 
frugal  meal,  they  lingered  on  the  bank  in  com 
panionable  silence.  At  last  Lone  Wolf  roused 
himself,  smiled,  and  said, 

"The  Zunis  sit  together  in  silence  when  they 
would  know  each  other." 

"An  excellent  custom,"  observed  the  Priest. 

"A  good  preparation  for  the  peace-pipe"  said 
Lone  Wolf. 

He  draw  forth  from  a  skin  pouch  a  pipe  of 
singular  and  beautiful  workmanship.  Carefully 
and  slowly  he  filled  it  with  a  light  colored  tobac 
co,  and  passed  it  to  Rosita.  By  an  ember  from 
their  dying  camp  fire  she  lighted  it  and  passed 
it  back  to  Lone  Wolf.  With  ceremonious  move 
ments,  he  then  arose  and  stood  facing  the  north. 

"Father  of  the  Dead,  bear  witness!"  was  the 
invocation  that  he  uttered  in  low  tones. 

He  bowed  once  to  the  Earth:  he  bowed  once 
to  the  Sky:  he  bowed  once  to  each  of  the  four 
Cardinal  Points.  Next  he  handed  the  pipe  to 
the  Priest  who,  in  tu unobserved  the  same  cere 
monial  and  passed  it  on  to  the  Trapper  who, 
likewise,  made  obeisance  to  the  Invisible 
Powers. 

"You  have  journeyed  far?"  asked  the  Priest. 

Lone  Wolf  told  of  his  past  life  and  recent 
wanderings,  and  of  Rosita. 

"We  have  come  from  the  land  of  the  White 
Men  on  the  edge  of  the  ocean,"  explained  the 
young  Trapper. 

"A  long  travelling,"  said  Lone  Wolf. 

"A  long  travelling,"  agreed  the  Priest. 

"But  we  rest  here,"  said  the  Trapper. 

46 


"How  is  that?"  asked  Lone  Wolf. 

"I  am  grown  old  and  worn  in  the  service  of 
Mother  Church,"  said  the  Priest  "My  yearly 
circuit  has  been  a  large  one,  to  far  distant  points 
where  missions  have  been  established.  I  can  do 
no  more.  This  youth — my  son  in  Christ — (he 
laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  the  Trapper's 
shoulder)  has  decided  with  me  to  make  our  final 
lingering  on  this  spot.  It  is  a  central  place  for 
a  trader  in  pelts.  The  dwellings  of  settlers  are 
not  far  away." 

"We,  too,  will  stop  here,"  said  Lone  Wolf. 

"Good!"  cried  the  Trapper,  his  gaze  seeking 
that  of  Rosita. 

"You  make  a  sudden  decision,"  said  the  Priest, 
"but  I  believe  you  will  not  regret  it.  Nor  shall 
we,"  he  added  courteously. 

So  they  rested — these  remnants  of  the  older 
civilizations — at  the  end  of  the  trail  to  which 
they  had  been  led  by  Michabo,  the  Dawn  of  a 
New  Day,  whose  father  is  the  West  Wind  and 
whose  mother  is  the  Moon. 


47 


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